A Delayed Return
by cognomen
Summary: It was awfully conveniant that Dracula had something that would end the Werewolf curse forever, right there in his castle. Or maybe it wasn't a cure... Post movie fic, will be longer eventually.


The word 'cure' implied a final and absolute removal of all contrary effects of a condition. Hence, when they'd found the cure for lycanthropy located, improbably, deep within Dracula's hidden fortress, they had fully expected it to cure Van Helsing under that definition. It had certainly -seemed- to work, reverting him back to his more or less normal form in less than ten minutes.

Of course, it hadn't had any directions on the bottle. Assuming it was both absolute and permanent was apparently assuming two things too many. Three weeks later, Van Helsing woke one morning with an interesting addition.

It was fluffy. Dark. Obnoxiously, it wagged when he was pleased (rarely) and sagged when he was down. On the rare occasion when he acknowledged it - after initial periods of shock, outrage, and shocked outrage, followed by moodswings and denial - it was soft as sin to the touch.

Gabriel Van Helsing had a tail.

For only one week of the month, at least. As they anticipated, a full moon brought on a full transformation. At the end of the night he became more or less himself again. Sans tail. It had, at least, served as a warning so that they could prepare for the worst.

Carl, resolute, refused to be sent away. Instead, he had prepared in what ways he'd found text basis for. A bath in holy water, a garlic wreath (Van Helsing suggested that Carl would at least give him bad breath as he was hideously devoured), a silver cross. Lord only knew where he'd found enough, but he'd stuffed his pockets full of wolvesbane, too. The flowery, heady scent repelled Van Helsing even before he'd turned.

After, he didn't remember much. Carl told him it had been complete overkill. Van Helsing caught one sniff of the monk and fled in the opposite direction as if his newly aquired tail were aflame.

Carl worried, huddled in his blankets at the camp and smelling of sweet, waxy flowers, that he would never see his companion again. It was the howling that told him Van Helsing stayed near. He howled almost incessantly, low and mournful, and never out of earshot. No animals dared answer.

He remembered very little about turning, which wasn't a new experience for him. Things stuck out in his mind - hunger, scents, the way it felt to move on all fours. He retained enough presence of mind to steer himself away from humans as prey, but he didn't trust himself in the face of real temptation. His mind was doggish, in a way, though sluggish to react and only somewhat obedient.

While animalistic, the creature he became was far from evil. Much of the blind fury that had fogged his mind on his first transformation was gone, leaving an animal that saw in absolutes - prey and not prey.

They'd delayed going back to the Vatican, hoping it would go away. It did seem easier to keep himself to livestock each time, but showed no sign of ceasing.

Eventually, as was their way, the Vatican found out.

---

Their messenger approached while he and Carl were mid-breakfast, under the cover of those coming and going from the Inn they'd found rest at.

"Well now," he sat directly at their table, extending his hand over the wood subtly to display his signet. "We've heard a few things back home that worry us."

He was young, gawkish but with promise of growing into his overlong limbs. Van helsing stared at the extended signet in silence before it was withdrawn. Carl sat frozen with his mug halfway to his mouth, petrified.

Still, he was the first to say something, crashing his drink into the table clumbsily.

"Well! Oh-" As it often did, it took Carl's mind and mouth a second to synch. "We're trying to find a cure-" he blurted, oblivious to his traveling companion's sudden glare. "Very hopeful, you know - of course, we wouldn't want to go back if there was any risk of it spreading!"

The messenger seemed satisfied. "He is sick, then." He leaned back, stretched. "We'd heard-"

"Leprosy, yes!" Carl burst out, entirely too loudly. "Ow!"

Van Helsing withdrew his foot from the Friar's toes beneath the table. "It's under control," He growled. "Nothing to be concerned with."

The messenger sat up, attentive. "You're still a risk for infection," He said, lowly. "Normally, the Vatican would have already sent hunters, but so far we've only recieved reports of livestock mutilations." His fingers steepled together. "While that continues, we'll grant you time to seek a cure."

"Don't they know of any?" Carl interrupted, hopefully. He had insisted their vaults would contain some clue.

"Death," came the answer, not unexpected. "Is the only recognized cure."

Glancing around at the patrons, many of whom were still looking over to see if there would be any more entertaining outbursts, the messenger tapped his fingers on the table before continuing.

"We're giving you a chance to see if there isn't, perhaps, another answer." The messenger rose, nodded respectfully. "But if we hear the name Loup Garou begin to whisper across the country side again, we will send our hunters."

To Carl, he handed a leatherbound package. "Mission orders and equipment," And then, he was gone. 


End file.
